Stories Are Medicine. They Have Such Power;

So, Let Us Push On Now, And Remember Ourselves Back To The Wild Soul. Let Us Sing Her Flesh Back Onto Our Bones.

When We Accept Our Own Wild Beauty, It Is Put Into Perspective, And We Are No Longer Poignantly Aware Of It Anymore, But Neither Would We Forsake It Or Disclaim It Either. Does A Wolf Know How Beautiful She Is When She Leaps? Does A Feline Know What Beautiful Shapes She Makes When She Sits? Is A Bird Awed By The Sound It Hears When It Snaps Open Its Wings? Learning From Them, We Just Act In Our Own True Way And Do Not Draw Back From Or Hide Our Natural Beauty. Like The Creatures, We Just Are, And It Is Right.

Be Wild; That Is How To Clear The River.

I Learned About The Sacred Art Of Self Decoration With The Monarch Butterflies Perched Atop My Head, Lightning Bugs As My Night Jewelry, And Emerald-green Frogs As Bracelets.

We Wish To Make Rage Into A Fire That Cooks Things Rather Than A Fire Of Conflagration.